


Take Me Home

by mockingjayne



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:27:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22457971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mockingjayne/pseuds/mockingjayne
Summary: Claire Beauchamp never expected to find herself working in a restaurant as a waitress, but having never felt like she belonged anywhere, she takes comfort in the monotonous routine of her days.  That is, until she meets James Fraser, a man who makes her feel more alive than she has in years.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp & Jamie Fraser, Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 162
Kudos: 278





	1. Chapter 1

_Toes wiggle further underneath the blanket, chipped black varnish sinking her deeper into the darkness she sits in. Pale freckles against even paler skin, hip bones jutting out through the sliver of space exposed in the stolen, oversized shirt she drowns in. Half truths burn on her lips, screaming loudly in the settled wine at the bottom of her stomach. Bound coffee stained words rest in her lap, speaking to a universal yearning for something she can’t utter but felt she’d grasped once before, fleetingly slipping through her gold ringed fingers. Grown out, curly, dark fringe lays a veil over pools of blue, blearily leaving an image of what once was, the swirling memory of regret that continues to grow._

_“You are my home,” she’d whispered to him, tears having threatened to mix with the beauty disguised as chaos, a breath away from ending them both._

_For somewhere, once, she thought she had been truly seen, but found she was soon forgotten._

xxxxx

_ ONE YEAR EARLIER _

Claire sets the plate back down, blowing her curly tendrils away from her forehead, an exasperated sigh escaping along with her patience with this day.

“What’s wrong this time?” She hears Rupert ask, bending to see her through the metal of soon to be waiting dishes, the heat lamp setting off a warmth that only leaves her feeling sweaty, her curls threatening to throw a tantrum along with the customers.

“They want the inside of the bread taken out… _’too many calories’_ ,” she says, momentarily ditching her English accent to put on her best impersonation of what she knew to be the typical toned voice that frequented the establishment, with a roll of her eyes, letting Rupert know she thought it was just as ridiculous as the raised eyebrows staring back at her.

She doesn’t miss his murmuring curse, and fights back a laugh - Rupert being one of the few friendly faces that has been around as long as she, working the trenches of customer service day in, day out.

Turning to wait for the remade food, she rests against the counter. It’s a relatively slow day at the restaurant, the lunch crowd having subsided, only the few stragglers, straddling a meal at a time of day that made little sense, but allowing her more time to make a mental list of things she needed to do when she got off. At the top of the list, stop and get cat food before Adso decided to lay claws to the walls in protest of his lack of sustenance. 

“I just had a guy tell me he wished I had more Daddy issues so I’d work at a strip club,” Claire’s coworker, Gillian, says with a flourish of her hands.

Claire makes a grimace, her face scrunching up in disgust.

“Not even the worst thing I’ve heard this week,” Gillian says with a shrug, blowing off the comment along with all the others that were meant to go in one ear and out the other, an endless cycle of demeaning words thrown at them, expected to be swallowed with a smile all in the name of “customer service.”

Claire traces the silver line indented on her hand, as the plate of remade food makes its appearance once more, ready to be served.

“Thanks, Rupert,” she tosses over her shoulder at the grisly man, Gillian staying behind, waiting for her.

“So are you doing the catering job tonight,” Gillian throws back at her, as Claire comes back to the cutlery station, meticulously folding forks and knives into linen napkins.

“I don’t think so,” she shrugs, blowing her fringe out of her face once more. An errant curl refusing to submit to her frustration, dangling over her eyes, bouncing with the movement of her head.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Gillian hits Claire’s hip with her side, their heights significantly varied. A raised brow and a quirk of her mouth suggesting there was no way that this party would be fun in the slightest.

“A bunch of rich, entitled people…” Claire starts, only to be interrupted.

“Eating out of the palms of our hands…literally,” Gillian says with a wink.

“I hope not literally,” Claire teases, sticking out her flat tongue.

“Think of the extra money…and you know, if you happen to meet a rich guy that can give you a good fuck,” she says a bit louder than intended, a customer looking up from their meal.

Claire shoots a knowing glance at her friend. 

Flashing a smile at the appalled woman, Gillian throws her head back.

“I’m gonna pay for that one,” she says with a shake of her head. “See, now we have to pick it up, because I’m not getting a tip from that prude,” she gestures towards the woman.

“She’s your table, not mine,” Claire says with a smirk. “I’m going to pass,” she says, putting the linen bundles into their bin. “I’ve got a new book and I…don’t do actors,” she says with a huff.

“Come on, I’ll drive, it’ll be…”

“If you say, ‘fun’ I’m definitely not doing it,” Claire warns.

“Fine, it’ll be…monetarily beneficial,” she grins.

xxxxx

The flutes of champagne balance precariously on the serving tray Claire carries with her, her hands attempting not to shake enough that she send the gold liquid onto anyone, but as she scans the room of men who think they hold more power than they do, congratulating themselves on being masters of their craft, women lapping up the chance to be in their presence, she can’t help but picture a slip of the hand that’s not so accidental.

Glancing back, she sees the event coordinator motioning for her to smile, and she turns back, her eyes threatening to roll all the way back into her head.

_It doesn’t matter, as long as you’re wearing this uniform, you’re invisible, Beauchamp._

The thought echoing a sentiment that had taken root in her for some time, yanking on a thread that could potentially unravel her ever so carefully constructed shield, whose protection she’d shrouded herself in before facing the day, for without it would leave her bare to the thoughts that would surely leave her with nothing but the ugly truth.

Her finger rubs at her hand, her eyes darting around at the extravagant decor of flowers and crystal jewels, only the biggest and best for, whoever this celebration was for. Another Hollywood party that mattered very little, a host of people begging for the attention that would make a connection, garner them a return for the years of hustle they’d put in. Exhausting. The smiles on their faces were likely as fake as the one she now had plastered to her own face, looking more like a grimace than anything close to resembling happiness, as she offered up more alcohol to people that surely didn’t need anymore courage to make bad decisions.

“Whiskey on the rocks, sweetheart,” she hears behind her, turning around to find a balding man with a graying beard and a sinister grin on his face, suggesting he was a man who always got what he wanted, and as his eyes did a slow once over her, catching on the open button of her shirt, she finds herself wanting to shrink into herself, her hand running over her palm, the bloom of panic tingling, before rising to her full height, which isn’t much shorter than this man, biting her tongue at the urge to tell him to go fuck himself.

“Right away,” she says with a grit of her teeth, quickly turning to head to the bar to grab the request. Giving the bartender the order, the woman looks as irritated as the rest of them, but throws a knowing grin her way.

“Fucking Americans and their ice,” she mutters under her breath.

“Careful, Sassenach, they might hear ye,” the soft bur of an accent sends a jolt through her, causing her to hit the tray, sending the remaining few glasses of champagne everywhere. The shattering of glass attracting the attention of the guests only briefly, a stray comment thrown out about _clumsy help_ hitting its target, before they go back to ignoring her.

“Fuck,” she says under her breath.

Turning quickly, she fumbles to pick up the broken glass, a rise of red lighting her cheeks on fire, incensed with anger and frustration.

Reaching for a piece of glass, she sees the tray in question appear before her, an offering to gather the mess she’d created. Looking up, she sees the man with the voice that had sent her reeling, a mop of curly red hair, looking like it had been attempted to be tamed, but had given up and decided instead to hang in perfect disarray.

“You don’t have to—“ she tries to get out, but he’s already gathered most of the remaining bits of glass onto the tray, peeking at her through his curls she sees a glimpse of blue that seem to pierce her, a flicker of something close to recognition passes through the sea like a wave, gone just as quickly, paired with a grin of understanding bristled in a stubble that begs to prick her finger and break the spell that seems to surround them.

“It’s the least I can do, seeing as it’s my fault,” he shrugs, the grin only growing wider, as he lifts his head, his bent stance has the kilt he’s wearing rucked up to where the muscles in his legs tease her, and she quickly averts her eyes, catching the raise of his eyebrows at having seemingly caught her glance.

“You’re right, it is your fault,” she says, straightening to a stand, and he peers up at her for a second, making her shift nervously from foot to foot before he stands, her eyes catching the glint of a scar contouring his cheekbone in the light. An imperfection that grounds him in reality. She moves to push her hair back from her face, having a hard time reconciling what she must look like next to this man.

She hears his gruff laugh, and swears it vibrates through her chest.

“I uhh, didn’t get you, did I?” She asks, her flustered mind only kicking itself at the excuse to roam over the expanse of his chest, slightly soaked, she immediately turns to grab a napkin on the bar, moving to blot his shirt, pressing gently on his chest, only having it dawn on her that she’s touching him when his hand comes to gently grab her wrist. Her breath momentarily stilted, his fingers warm on her pulse - simultaneously skittering her heart to beat faster while leaving her with a sense of peace, like being held too close to the sun, a tranquil warmth threatening to burst her into flames, she pulls back on reflex, and he lets go, freeing her, instead of keeping hold.

“’Tis alright, Sassenach, a wee bit of spilled alcohol never hurt anyone,” the breath of his words washing over her, and she steps back with the napkin. Her nose scrunching at the derogatory word he kept using like it was an endearment. His smile rises at her blowing a stray curl out of her face. “Especially when it’s champagne, “ he playfully grimaces, clearly not a fan of the bubbly.

“Too true,” she shrugs, turning to grab the whiskey she’d all but forgotten in her haste to completely drown this charming man in her work. Her usual response to flee begins to rise in her - the calm she’d felt in his presence shifting, as the man whose whiskey she held approached the makeshift stage with a microphone. “Ugh, here we go,” she rolls her eyes.

“Not a fan?” He asks, looking amused by her clear disdain.

“The only thing worse than actors are the people in charge of them,” she says, before catching the eye of Gillian, a curious smirk on her face, making her way towards Claire. “Anyway, I hope I didn’t keep you from…whatever it is you’re doing here,” she looks down at his kilt again. “Are you the entertainment?”

His eyes widen at the suggestion before biting back a laugh. 

“Something like that,” he says with what she swears is a twinkle in his eye.

_“And now help me in introducing the reason we’re all here, actor James Fraser…”_

The applause of the entire party seems to grow exponentially around her. Glancing around, she tries to find where the man in question is hiding, until she feels the words whispered in her ear.

_“At least I’m not the worst…”_

The curly mop of red making his way towards the stage, shirt soaked, kilt swaying with every step, and a smile that keeps glancing back at her.

_Bloody Hell, Beauchamp._


	2. Chapter 2

A yawn escapes from her mouth, eyes closing, remnants of the makeup from last night land with a smear under her eyes, most of the dark smudges having done their damage as she slept, marking her face out to look something like a masked creature slinking through her shift.She goes to wipe at the straying eyeliner that refuses to relinquish its hold on letting everyone know that she was a complete mess.

Claire had woken up late, the sun already peeking in through the cheap blinds that were hanging when she’d moved in.A claw to the knee stung her awake with a hiss, a reminder that _someone_ was hungry, and apparently could no longer wait to be fed.When she’d found the tiny kitten huddled by the dumpster behind the restaurant, she’d taken pity on the poor thing, lost, scrambling for food, not meant to survive - a kindred spirit of sorts.To think she’d thought a cat would be low maintenance.Oh, how wrong she’d found herself to be - but the responsibility had quickly turned into her reason for getting out of bed, functioning through the day - motivation to keep moving, if only to avoid those needle like claws from tearing into her - something to care for, something to care about.

She’d sighed, inspecting her knee - nothing deep, but she’d feel the sting with her all day long.Having tripped over her blankets as she made her way out of bed, her hair stood up in all directions, her shirt twisted, as if she’d been tossing and turning, nearly strangling herself in the material, and a distinct wet spot on her pillow that she could claim was from drool, but the black stain gave her tears away. 

She’d groaned.

_Great, another day._

She’d tried her best to pull her hair back into something that resembled a top knot, as she rushed into the restaurant, the errant curls refused to be tamed, instead adding to the effect of a thief in the night, one that inserted her foot into her mouth all too often, while scrounging for scraps from the rich that dared to tip her.One had even tried to insert a dollar, _a dollar,_ into the pocket of her shirt, as if that were a normal thing.And unfortunately for her, it wasn’t the first time.She could still hear the ice clinking against his glass, and the clench of her jaw at the determined twinkle in his eye, like he’d paid for more than just the drink with that dollar.

“God, you look like shit,” Gillian greets her, causing Claire to choke on her scorching hot tea, spilling it down her white shirt.

“Fuck,” she grumbles, grabbing for a napkin to attempt to blot the now brown stain soaking through her already wrinkled attire.Seemingly doing more harm than good, she flops her hands down, tossing the napkin onto the counter.She was a lost cause at this point. _In more ways than one_ , she thought to herself.“Good morning to you too,” she sneers at her friend.

“Rough night?” Gillian giggles, her red hair bouncing with her laugh, teasing Claire, over what, she probably wasn’t even sure herself, but the red tinting covering Claire’s cheeks indicated that she was on the right track.

“No more than usual,” Claire tries to throw out, moving to the computer, quickly typing in her number to clock in, and then staring blankly ahead, pretending she had something else to do than talk to the woman that was about to start digging for information.

“You ran off pretty quickly last night,” she nearly sings.“Only a text to tell me you had a ride…” she trails off, waiting for Claire to answer.

“I uhh, didn’t feel well,” she coughs, the excuse sounding as fake as the cough she tried to pass off as real.

Gillian studies her face, and Claire raises a brow, daring her to say what she was thinking.

“Out with it,” she huffs, exiting the screen and turning to face her friend, who bites her lip while scanning over her body, making Claire flinch, wanting to cross her arms over herself, the scrutiny of her prying eyes completely unwanted, especially in her current state of disaster.

“Just checking to see if you’d fucked the actor,” Gillian shrugs, having come to her conclusion, a look of disappointment passing over her face.

Claire could’ve choked on her tongue.

“What!?”And with that, crosses her arms indignantly.

“Relax, I know you didn’t,” Gillian says completely sure of herself.“You’re much too uptight to have gotten some.”

“You’re right, I didn’t,” Claire shoots back, looking down at her shoes, tracing over the jagged line on her hand until she hears a whisper.

“But you wanted to.”

Claire’s head jerks up to the grinning redhead.

“N-no,” she says, almost stammering against the word.“No, I told you, I don’t do actors,” but as the words leave her mouth, she can taste the lie.

Gillian wears a knowing look on her face as she ties her apron around her waist.

“Eh, you’re not his type anyway, honey,” she grins, tossing her hair back in a move that nearly hits Claire in the face, leaving her standing by herself as the lunch rush begins to come in.

“I don’t want to be his type,” she mutters to herself, her face scrunching together in thought.Her tossing and turning the night before, a blur of red and blue, the feel of his hard chest still pressured solid against her fingers, the severity of his eyes threatening to drown her, and it sends a shiver down her spine at the familiarity she found herself encompassed in within his presence, one that she can’t quite place.

Glancing back, she sees customers coming in, and she quickly pulls out her phone before she has to get to work.

_James Frasier._

Claire types the name into Google, and is quickly corrected that it’s James _Fraser,_ no I.

She’s met with a slew of pictures of the curly haired Scot in various poses: working out, on the red carpet, staring into her soul through the screen with those blue eyes that she couldn’t seem to escape even when she closed her own eyes and willed the image to disappear.They’d been seared into her, and she could still feel the sting of the burn.Or maybe that was the tea seeping through to her chest.

Quickly scanning through the headlines, she finds that whoever this guy is, he’s incredibly well known.Thousands of results come up for his new film, which is apparently his great comeback from having been missing from the Hollywood scene for a while, to people speculating over which blonde of the week he was dating.

_Gillian’s right, I’m not his type._

And she’s not quite sure if that’s a forlorn thought or one of relief, so she can finally put that night behind her, the one in which she’d embarrassed herself, and then spent the rest of the time walking around like she did in her life, under a banner of avoidance, ducking through people anytime he got remotely close to her, only for him to be pulled away by Mr. Bloody Ice-In-His-Whiskey Bastard.She’d almost felt bad for the guy, until she remembered that he was probably just like them.They all were.No, it was better if she just got back to living the half life she had going on.

Looking up, she sees the tables begin to fill quickly.Exiting her tab, she tosses her phone in her long apron pocket and heads out onto the floor to the first table in her section with only one patron, the menu held up high, sitting at a table for four.

 _Great,_ she mumbles under her breath, seeing her tip dramatically drop.

“Hi, I’m Claire, I’ll be your waitress today, what can I get started for—“

The customer drops his menu and she’s met with the same blue eyes from last night, a rush of heat blooming against her cheeks, the same as the red curls, more wild than last night, like he’d forgone combing them before heading out that day.

 _“You…”_ she says, more attitude than intended, suddenly becoming all too aware of what she must look like - tea stained, wrinkled shirt, untamable curls, smudged makeup, unmissable blush.“Fuck.”

And it doesn’t hit her she’s said that aloud until she hears his laugh.

“Sassenach,” he says with the same perfect grin he’d worn the night before.

It was right about then she wished a hole would open up beneath her and swallow her whole.


	3. Chapter 3

She can feel the spray of scalding hot drops hit her back, their rhythmic pounding against her flesh vibrate through her, seeping into her skin, the heat of water the only warmth she allows herself to feel. Her brown hair becomes blacker still, creating a shield, shrouding her in darkness.

_“What are you, stalking me?”_ _She hears herself say, the shock of seeing the red haired actor staring up at her with his impossibly blue eyes._

Her music softly plays through the trickling of water, the kind Gillian refers to as “doom and gloom” but whose words touch her in a way she doesn’t permit others to attempt, making her feel that maybe she’s not so alone. She pulls her knees closer to her body, collapsed into a ball.

_He nearly chokes on his laughter, her face turning red with an almost blush at her assumption._

_“I dinna think it’s stalking, as ye say, if I was asked,” he teases, that grin she can’t wipe from her eyes playing on his lips._

_“Asked?” She balks, and he points at Gillian, who’s not so subtly eavesdropping from her table behind them._

_“I’m going kill her,” Claire mutters under her breath._

_As if noticing that she was letting on that he’d thrown her off, she straightens, her long neck peeking from its collar, the tips of her eyes covered by fringe, leaving a narrowing effect down upon this man. She can feel her heart beating loudly against her ears._

_“What can I get for you?”_

_“I dinna ken, what’s good?” He asks with a raise of his brow, and a grin that she can’t quite tell if he’s trying to be cute or just oblivious to her mood._

_Her hands drop by her side, her pad hitting her apron with an exasperated sigh._

_“I do have other tables to get to…” And she swears his grin falters a bit before perking back up with a shake of his head, his curls floating across his eyes, like fire threatening to be extinguished by the blue sea it hovers over._

_“Two coffees,” he says, and she balks again, the thought of someone joining him having never crossed her mind. And she silently kicks herself for believing this was anything other than a coincidence, him being here. He certainly didn’t show up for her. Of course not. And she quickly turns to escape before her glass face gives away that she ever thought differently._

_Heading to the back, she glances at the mirror that hangs above the employee sink, and sees her hair sticking out in all directions, her fringe curling at the ends, and she quickly sweeps them to the side. The stain on her shirt has set, a ring of embarrassment displayed for all, tie crooked, and the black of smudged makeup creasing in the crinkles her eyes give way to when she smiles, which isn’t too often these days. Turning on the faucet, she cups the water between her palms before splashing the liquid against her face, the droplets momentarily waking her, before she attempts to wipe away the black evidence of sadness with her finger._

Sitting in the bed of her tub, the shower pours down on her, and she looks up into the water, never quite drowning her in its wake, instead trickling against her, escaping from her presence the way she wishes she could do to herself.

_“Here you go,” she says, placing one coffee in front of him, and the other on the other end of the table, likely for some blonde he’ll have meeting him. “Would you like to wait until the rest of your party gets here…” but her question trails off, as she sees him laugh just a bit to himself. “Is there something funny?”_

_“No,” he quickly says. “I’ll wait,” his tongue comes to lick his lips, and she swears if she had still been holding the coffee mugs, she’d have spilled them right into his lap._

_“Hmph,” she says with a flick of her head, and nearly running right into Gillian carrying a tray of drinks._

_“Careful, Sassenach,” she hears over her shoulder, tempted to turn towards him with her tongue stuck out like a two year old, as she slinks off to her other tables._

Claire shakes her head, sending water hitting the curtain, her hair refusing to relent, clinging to her, like soot against snow, polluting her mind with conversations she knows she needs to rid herself free of.

_She finds herself peeking over at his table as the rush begins. A flurry of people begging for her attention, demands that have her questioning if they were this picky in their every day life or just when it came to food. Every time she’d head over to refill his coffee, which was beginning to become impressive he could consume so much (the second cup still sat full) she’d be beckoned over to one of her more demanding tables, which was okay by her, it gave her an excuse to avoid James. But her eyes refused to get the memo, constantly travelling over, raking over his strong back, to the red curls that gathered on his neck, the glint from the sun coming in through the window he sat by, striking the scar that rested on his cheekbone, and not for the first time, she finds herself wondering what it would feel like to run her finger over the mar of imperfection._

The water puddles in the bend of her arm, caught between her connecting flesh, with one movement she lets it go, splashing into to where her feet rest, and her toes curl at the sudden deluge.

_“Get back to work, Beauchamp,” her manager’s voice grating on her nerves, interrupting her daydream. Gillian always claimed he had a crush on her, but Claire mostly found the man to be harmless. As long as she kept her head down and showed up for her shifts, he wasn’t too hard on her. But when he’d lean against the counter just a little too close, she’d find an excuse to be busy._

_“Going, Christie,” her emphasis on his surname not unnoticed. But the rush had died down at this point, only a few patrons remained, one being James._

_Sidling up to his table, she almost feels badly for the man who’d clearly been stood up. Almost._

_“Hot date didn’t show up?” She asks with a raised brow, her finger idly tracing her own mar of imperfection._

_“Verdict’s still out,” he says with a shrug._

_“Maybe next time,” she offers, and then scrunches her face at the idea of acting hopeful for his love life._

_“We’ll see,” he says with a glint in his eye, and then she hears the giggles from a few tables back. Glancing over she sees two women having clearly spotted James._

_“Never short on admirers, I see,” she says as he stands, and Claire nearly stumbles backwards to get out of his way, his hands shooting out to steady her, briefly, before quickly letting go, her mouth hanging open as he makes his way towards the door, a quick nod and smile sent towards the two women who’d sent him fleeing._

_“Hey, you forgot to…” she’s about to say, when he turns, his hand running through his hair, and then he’s off. “…pay.” She huffs, moving to clear the mugs, when she finds a bill tucked underneath the second cup of coffee._

Momentarily breaking from her sitting position, she reaches for the drain, stopping the water’s escape, left with no choice but to gather around her.

_“Bitch, what was that for?” Gillian screeches, Claire’s hand having slapped her shoulder._

_“You told him to come here?” She practically growls, her anger having stewed enough to skip a meal on her break._

_“Told who?” Gillian says, voice going high, acting innocent, twisting a piece of her own red hair between her fingers._

_“Fuck off, you told him to come here as some sort of pity date,” she argues, flopping back in her chair out back, the sun beating down on her pale face._

_“Honey, if you think that was a date…” Gillian starts, tilting her head in horror at the thought._

_“You know what I mean,” Claire’s words tinged in defeat._

_“I simply suggested that if he wanted to see you again, he should stop by…that’s all,” her shrug acting as if it really was nothing to get angry about._

_“Yeah, well, he clearly felt sorry for me, as he left me this,” she yanks a hundred dollar bill from her apron. “Like he can just…buy me off like that. I swear, they’re all the same.”_

_“At least he didn’t try to shove it into your shirt,” her friend counters with a sheepish grin._

_“Yeah, well, I’m going to bloody shove this up his arse if he shows up again,” taking the money and putting it into a separate pocket._

_“I love it when you get all British on me,” Gillian teases, causing Claire to roll her eyes._

There’s a break in the music as the song changes, a soft instrumental piece begins to play, the keys of a piano almost twinkle her vision with its sound, causing a settling feeling to manifest in her stomach. It’s a nostalgic piece, one she can’t place, but that builds within her, until she’s breathing heavily. The water climbing up above her ankles, just deep enough that she can easily lay down now.

_She’s not sure why she’s surprised then the next day, as she’s pulling her mess of curls into a top knot, when Gillian runs up behind her with a beaming smile on her face._

_“He’s back,” she practically sings._

_“You’re kidding,” Claire says with an annoyed tone, but she can’t help the way her heart begins to beat just a little faster, as she quickly looks down to see that at least today she’s managed not to spill anything on herself. Yet._

_Marching out onto the floor, she quickly arrives at his table, the same one he’d been at yesterday, and she nearly does a double take, the glasses he’s wearing today somehow making him even cuter than usual, but she shakes her head, her indignation back within a second, and slams the hundred dollar bill down on the table._

_“I’m not a charity case, James,” she sneers, and his shocked face looks up at her as if she’d slapped him._

_“Never thought ye were, Sassenach,” he tries, but she’s not buying it._

_“Who gives this much for two cups of coffee? Do you think I’m that desperate for money?”_

_“No, I—“_

_“Because I’m not,” she says with a crossing of her arms._

_“Wait, why didn’t ye use it to pay for my coffee?”_

_Her face begins to heat, her arms awkwardly adjusting, as she looks anywhere but him._

_“You saved it just to make a point…”_

_“Yeah, so…”_

_“Stubborn,” he laughs._

_“Stop, it’s not funny.”_

_“It’s a wee bit funny,” he says, making his accent thicker to drive the point across._

_She narrows her eyes at him._

_“Fine, consider it a downpayment.”_

_“For what?” Her hands come to rest on her hips, her mouth pursing, and she can see he’s fighting back a comment._

_“For all the coffee I’m going to order,” he says matter of factly, a curl slipping underneath his lenses, and she has to dig her nails into her palm not to reach out and move it out of his eyes._

_“I’m never going to get rid of you, am I?” She sighs, her annoyance rising at the same rate as her hope. He was persistent, she’d give him that. But it was only a matter of time until he got bored of whatever game he was playing and left._

_“Not so long as ye’ll have me,” and there’s no hint of a grin with this, and she feels a warmth spread over her._

_“Yeah, well…” she fumbles for words. “I’m not allowed to kick people out so…”_

_“So…I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other,” he says, pulling out a book, the cover having been removed, so she can’t see what it is he’s reading._

_“Great,” her sarcasm out in full force with an obviously fake smile. “I’ll go get your coffee.”_

_“Jamie,” he says, almost a whisper._

_“What?”_

_“You called me James, but my friends and family call me, Jamie,” he explains, licking his lips._

_“Well, I am neither, James.”_

_And she swears she hears him mutter something in Gaelic as she walks away._

The music makes its way further and further from her as the water rises up against her ears, every subtle movement sending a wave crashing against her, a euphoric sensation trickles through her as the spray of the water beats down, slowly taking over her body.

_Their routine becomes the same, every day James shows up, is seated at the exact same table in her section all the way in the back of the restaurant, with the same book, the same order of coffee. Some days he’ll come in with his glasses already on, other days, he’ll pull out the case he has tucked in his pocket before diving into his book, always pausing whenever she approaches the table._

_He attempts to engage her in conversation, but she knows how this goes, it’s only a matter of time before he gets bored and moves on. So she carefully avoids answering anything about herself, the walls around her built high and sturdy._

She lets her hands rest on the surface, a delicate balance between rising to the top and pressuring herself to the bottom. Her eyelashes feel heavy against her, wet and clumped, she teeters on the verge of being fully submerged and choosing to let her lips peek just above the surface.

_“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” She’d asked one day, and he’d laughed, claiming his film was still in pre-production. And for as much as she acted annoyed at his appearance every day, she found it oddly comforting to have something to look forward to, although she’d never admit as much to herself. She found she didn’t dread coming into work as much, waking up before Adso clawed her, a “bounce in her step” as Gillian had noticed, only to be quickly denied by Claire. The banter between her and James had become one of few interactions she had throughout the week that wasn’t with either a pet or a coworker. He was careful not to cross the invisible line she’d set for them, but he’d notice when she came to work one day with her hair braided, rather than it’s usual top knot or the bandage on her finger (from her cat) to which he’d perked up at getting a piece of information about her, and ever since had made it a point to ask how the “wee cheetie” was doing. She wasn’t used to people being interested in her life, and most of the time she found herself holding her breath when he’d ask, like she was being backed into a corner with questions, her first inclination to lie or shoot back a sarcastic remark, feeling he was getting too close. But she couldn’t deny there was a thrill there._

Plunging her head down, she imagines the struggle, how easily she could let it all go, the tiny beads of water creating tiny bursts in her ears as they spray down on the full tub she’s created. Her eyes wide awake, refusing to close, her body tempted to buoyantly make its way to life, but her will demanding she weightily suspend herself between the choice to sink or swim just a moment longer.

_“Well, don’t you smell nice today,” Gillian teases Claire as she rushes to clock in._

_Pulling on a loose curl, her friend refuses to let up._

_“So you two married yet or what?”_

_“He’s just a customer, G,” the blush crawling on up her face, reaching for the light sprinkling of freckles giving way to the feelings she refused to admit even to herself._

_“Yeah, a customer that just happens to be rich, famous, hot as fuck, and did I say rich?”_

_Claire rolls her eyes reaching to tie her apron on._

_“Like you said, I’m not his type,” she reiterates, tossing a look that begs for the subject to be dropped._

_“Fine, fine,” she backs off, holding up her hands in surrender. “But if you don’t make a move soon, I will,” she winks._

_Making her way out onto the floor, she looks to see if James has been seated, only to find his table empty._

_Wiping her hands on her apron, she attempts to distract herself with her other tables, her eyes always wandering over to where she’d become accustomed to him being, nearly snapping when the hostess seats a group at the table that’s usually reserved for the bookish redhead. She can feel the hurt rising in her chest as the hours tick by and he never shows, and with it, comes the anger at having let her feelings reach a point where she’s actually upset at his absence. Her mind reeling at having thought, just for a second, that maybe he could like her. Maybe someone could actually care. But she’d been wrong. They were all the same._

_By the time her shift ends, she’s near tears. Beating herself up with self-loathing foolishness that has her stripping off her clothes and crawling into the shower, flicking on her music, as she settles back to her old routine, washing away James Fraser from her life._

Bursting upright, she lets the water slide from her along with her anxiety, threatening to pour over the tub and flood her floor, and that first breath, the one she found she’d been holding longer than before she’d sunk underneath, feels all too familiar, the moment she has to accept that she’s still here. Not clean, not healed, but still here. Another day ahead of her.

A day that didn’t include James Fraser.


End file.
